Nothing in My Way (And Why'd You Lie?)
by SilverBird13
Summary: Viserys Targaryen hates most people. But not Jorah Mormont. Well, most of the time, anyways. *contains SLASH* This has more or less become a series of semi-related chapters about these two, so keep checking for updates!
1. Chapter 1

Viserys Targaryen hates most people.

This includes his slut of a sister, his mad father, his weak mother, and his fool of a brother. Not to mention everyone last bloody whoremonger in Westeros who bowed to the Usurper and all of the Dothraki, besides (Viserys simply finds them disgusting).

But not Jorah Mormont. Well, most of the time, anyway.

"Most of the time", however, is more than Viserys is used to tolerating (_oh seven hells, liking_) someone for.

He likes the way that Mormont (_Jorah, he calls him, but only at night before he falls into a fitful sleep in his tent_) always asks him how he finds the Dothraki Sea today. Viserys may always respond with a remark such as yesterday's charming "_The way I might find a poxy whore_" but still, the gesture is appreciated.

He likes how Mormont (_Jorah_) tells him about his life on Bear Island before his exile; how he used to wield an axe and chase his sisters and even fish barehanded (_barechested?_)

He certainly doesn't like the regaling of Lynesse Hightower's (_NOT Mormont's_) sexual prowess, however. It seems she and Dany would've gotten on quite well.

He likes that Jorah doesn't bat an eyelash when he goes into one of his freezing fits, shaking and sobbing when no one else but the ex-knight is around (_it's so, so cold and where is Mother and is Dany safe and is someone behind him?_).

Jorah merely offers him another cup of wine and the option to sleep curled up to his bulk that Viserys always immediately declines.

Most of all, though, he likes the way the man calls him his King.


	2. Chapter 2

[A/N: Viserys needs some Zoloft and a fucking hug.]

It is nearly midnight in the depths of the Dothraki Sea, and Jorah Mormont is contemplating killing his king.

It's become an almost nightly routine these past few weeks. After the Dothraki take their evening meal (_and before the deaths and raping and dancing start_), Viserys and his loyal Ser Jorah retire to the area outside their tent, where they share another drink in the relative peace and quiet of the grasslands.

Sometimes, in hopes of diverting his King's attentions from the sorrows to be found in a cup, Jorah tells stories of his life before his exile. While he hardly had an idyllic childhood (_or adulthood thus far_), he can admit to himself that having your sister hit you in the arm with an axe is far preferable to seeing your mother die in front of you. Viserys usually responds to these stories with a half-smirk or a grunt, and Jorah always nods in acknowledgement (_though how he'd like the man to smile..._).

Other times, (_like tonight_), he remains stoic, unable to drum up the energy after a long day of riding to tell tales to an obviously uninterested audience.

He always regrets this.

For, without a distraction from the particular sadness of wine, Viserys often slips into one of his fits, shaking and crying as though he had been driven out of the Seven Kingdoms only yesterday, while Jorah sits powerless to help him (_for he knows his king is not a man to be rocked and gentled like a babe_). This never stops him from (_chastely?_) offering Viserys a place next to him on his bedroll, however, even if he is always sharply rebuffed, and even if he hears ragged sobs from under furs more often than not afterwards.

He understands, of course, that Viserys is damaged. Of course he feels pity for the younger man. But Jorah is a true Northman, and thus he has a low tolerance for wallowing in pain that could easily be at least soothed.

That is why, after weeks of restless nights and dreams of haunted lilac eyes, Jorah decides to disregard the wishes of his king and sleep beside the small, shaking form illuminated so pathetically in the moonlight, praying to the old gods and the new that he might be able to offer a semblance of comfort to this man who hadn't asked for tragedy.

Jorah gathers his blankets and mat and moves silently across the tent they share. With only a moment's hesitation, he sets his things down and arranges himself so that he is several inches from Viserys. Taking a deep breath, Jorah turns himself to face his King's back and gently places his hand on the slight curve of Viserys's waist.

One punch in the neck later, and Jorah decides that he really should've thought that through better, considering Viserys had been on the run from assassins for nigh on a decade.

Viserys, ever acting the king even when scared and tear-stained like a child, soon whips the rest of his body around to face Jorah.

"What in the Seven Hells are you doing, _Ser_?" he practically growls.

"Protecting my king, Your Grace," Jorah replies evenly, rubbing his neck, "Or at least attempting to."

"Do you see any sellswords, any bloody shadowcats, any rabid Dothraki whores? Neither do I. Remember your place, Ser, and let me sleep." With this, Viserys turns back around, gathers up his furs, and pulls them over his head.

Jorah swallows a sad chuckle at this petulant gesture from a man who seeks to rule Westeros. He rolls over, speaking to the darkness. "No, Your Grace, I see none of these dangers present. However, I still sense there is one in this tent." The lump of blankets stiffens at this, and Jorah takes a deep breath before continuing. "It is your memory, Your Grace, that will be your greatest threat. It will eat away at you if you let it, and I would be guilty of kingslaying if I did nothing to help you. Please, my king, let me try to offer you comfort, in this way and in any other." (_Gods, he blushes like a maiden then_).

Jorah hears a sniffle, and suddenly finds Viserys attached to him like some sort of unfortunate growth. It takes several moments of deep breathing to calm himself from the sensation of arms around his waist and legs entwined with his (_and oh Gods, a face buried in his neck and he won't think about anything lower..._) before he can relax and enjoy the soft breathing of sleep from his king.

Jorah sighs and falls asleep dreaming of nights to come.


	3. Chapter 3

[A/N: Thank you for your favorites, follows, views, and reviews! The rating for this story will be M after this chapter, so keep that in mind if you're checking for updates!]

Jorah Mormont is so drunk, he believes he may bloody well be seeing Aegon the Conqueror entering his tent (_isn't the other option far better, though_?).

He refuses to regret last night. He'd offered a broken man comfort. He'd acted as a loyal knight, a trusted confidante, a _friend_.

And yet here he stands. Or rather, sits. He's been drinking since the khal chose to make camp for the evening (_are you sure it wasn't before then_?), hoping it would numb any seeds of regret and ready him for another (_sleepless_?) night.

Damn Aegon the Conqueror. Damn him and his bloody lilac eyes.

"My, my. It seems that you're enjoying your cups of late, Ser Jorah." Viserys strides over to the man and proceeds to straddle him, rupturing his thoughts. "Do you want to play Usurper and Queen, is that it? Want me to moan like that Lannister slut while you take me from behind and pretend I'm Ned Stark?" Jorah whimpers (_a bear whimpers?_) as Viserys begins to rock against him.

"M-my king, I only want you. But you make it so-oh, Gods" he groans as Viserys rubs against a sensitive spot, "so hard."

Viserys smiles, a hard predatory smile, and tucks his head into Jorah's neck, his hair tickling the other man's ear. "It's you who make it hard, Jorah. You and no one else."

At that, Jorah Mormont, formerly Lord Mormont of Bear Island, a man who had been married to two beautiful women, spills in his breeches like a green boy.

Viserys has the tact to stay in his lap as he shudders and wraps his arms around the slim body and whispers the other man's name. After several quiet moments, he gets up and straightens himself, smirking.

"I'd have given you a proper fucking, my dear Ser, but no drunkard will go rewarded in my service. Sleep where you will tonight, but I will never look on you again should I find you in this state." With that, he sweeps out of the tent.

Jorah pours the remainder of his wine skin on the hard, cold ground.


End file.
